Cold Blooded Mean
by gloryblastit
Summary: Bob's view of Johnny's beating
1. Default Chapter

Wealth. Prestige. Privilege. I took it all as my due. My parents are so brainwashed, it's pathetic really. There are no limits, and there shouldn't be.

I admit, the drinking has become something of a…crutch? No matter. Sure, Cherry hates the drinking, that little bitch.

Every day I drink at school, a little vodka in the orange juice just to get everything going in the right direction. My parents are too preoccupied to notice, my dad has his high powered career and my mother, in her designer dresses and pearls, she takes care of all the parties and social shit he doesn't have time to deal with. So they deal with that, I can do as I please.

Lately I've had this bored restlessness. Drinking used to fill it nicely. No more. The drinks are maintenance, really. I need new kicks, and I know how to get them.

A spring day, sunny, after school and I'm bored. I sat in my brand new blue mustang with Randy and we passed the flask back and forth.

"Hey, I got an idea," Randy looked only slightly wary, and I took the flask back from him and swigged it, lit a cigarette, flipped through the radio.

"Let's go to the east side, see what we can find," Randy shrugged, but the alcohol would help him along.

I don't know what it is but those greasers from the east side bug the shit out of me. They're a menance to society, cheap low life hoods. I like nothing better than to stomp on them, teach them who is in charge.

There is no excuse for poverty like that. My father works hard and we have the material goods to show for it. If the greasers' parents weren't drinking their paychecks away in those honky tonk bars, and gambling it away, and spending it on two dollar whores, then they wouldn't have to live in those run down shacks that make the city look like shit. When I get to thinking about it I really can't stand them.

"We'll pick up David and Thomas and we'll head over to the east side, find some fun," I said. Randy looked more agreeable, the drinking helps him to loosen up. We picked them up and cruised over to the poor sections. The houses needed painting, kind of leaned toward each other, ragged lawns, litter all over the place. I wanted to spit on these houses. Those goddamn greasy hoods, I'd show them, I'd show them…

As I drove I noticed how the sun reflected off my rings. The rings were thick, solid gold and silver, inlaid with onyx. The rings looked just right on my fingers as I gripped the steering wheel and headed deeper into the derelict section of Tulsa.

"Hey, Bob, look," David had been avidly starring out the window and noticed one of those punks in a vacant lot. Even from here I could see the grease gleaming in his hair, the run down clothes, low life little shit.

"A perfect victim," I said, feeling the alcohol making the day somehow overbright, the smoke on the windshield suddenly visible. I slowed the car and pulled closer to the field.

"Let's get him," Thomas said, smiling, showing all of his teeth.

"Wait," I said, and held up a hand. The kid held a football, kicked it a few times, didn't notice us. Then he did, even from here I could see his eyes widen in fear and I felt that rush, of power and anger just looking for a target.

"Now!" I said, and we got out of the car, the kid ran. But we caught him easily.

"Alright, you dirty greasy hood," I spat the words and felt rage just coursing through my veins, I wanted to kill this piece of trash, "You're gonna get it, now," David held him and he twisted and struggled but he was small and David wasn't. He had long black greasy hair that hung in his eyes, and I saw bruises on him already. Probably his father beats him, happens a lot with the scum on the east side. What will another beating hurt?

It felt so good to connect my fist with this kid's face and stomach and ribs, the satisfying impact of my fist into unrelenting bone. 


	2. ch2

I got lost, punching over and over. My fist solidly connected every time.  
"Bob, hey, c'mon," Randy tugged on my arm and I blinked, it was like coming back to myself. The light seemed to have changed, more gold than it was. David let go of the kid and he collapsed to the ground. There was blood on my fist, on the rings. I shook my head to clear it. The kid didn't move and I looked at him a moment just to be sure he was breathing. His face was covered in blood.  
There was blood on his tee shirt, blood on the ground, I wasn't as angry anymore. Randy spoke my thought, "Is he breathing?" The kid's eyes were closed but he was breathing, I could see it.  
"O.K., let's go," I said, and headed back to the car. I felt unnerved, not so much that I beat that kid, he had it coming, damn greaser. It was because I lost myself. A drink would help that.  
I drove back to the west side, the streets getting wider, the houses nicer. I took a long, slow swallow of the whiskey and it burned my stomach, that flash of warmth that made everything O.K.  
It was hard to keep the car in a straight line, and I careened toward Cherry's house. The others left at some point, I didn't really see them go. It didn't matter.  
Cherry must have seen me coming because she opened the heavy front door before I had a chance to knock.  
"Bob! What happened?" The world spun a little, with Cherry in the center. In the fading light her hair was an even darker red.  
"What? What do you mean?"  
"What do I mean? You're covered in blood!" I looked at my hands again, and the rings with the blood drying on them. There was blood on my arms and on my shirt, too.  
"Oh, uh, I was in a fight," She looked skeptical, crossed her arms.  
  
"Have you been drinking, too?" This made her angry, always.  
"No, I"  
"Liar," she turned from me and headed back into her house, "come back when you're sober," she said coldly. She slammed the door right in my face. Little bitch.  
I got back in my car and headed home. The last of the light had seeped from the sky. My house was dark. They both weren't home.  
In the large white bathroom off my room I peeled off my clothes, frowning at the blood stains. I looked in the mirror before I got in the shower. There was blood in my hair.  
Showered and dressed in fresh clothes, I sipped a scotch at the bar and waited for my parents to return. When their headlights flashed up the driveway I dumped the drink down the sink and rinsed the glass, swigged the little bottle of listerine I kept in my pocket.  
They breezed in, my father helping my mother out of her coat. They smiled at me.  
"Hi, how was the thing?"  
"The charity auction at your father's office? Fine, fine," My mother leaned over and kissed my cheek.  
"How was school, son? " My father said, hanging up the coats.  
"Good,"  
"Staying out of trouble?" He said, beginning to fix drinks for himself and my mother.  
"Always," I said. 


	3. ch3

It was in the morning, when my head was pounding and my mouth was so dry and I was thirsty but everything I drank tasted like metal, this was when I thought about quitting drinking.

Maybe I would. It would make Cherry happy. Maybe I would.

Downstairs, standing at the sink, I popped a few aspirins and poured myself a coffee. Had to get the damn flies going in the right direction.

I usually filled my whiskey flask before I headed to school but not today. My head pulsed and throbbed with the hangover and my tongue felt furry, my stomach queasy. Poison. It was poison.

In school the hangover went away by inches and by noon I felt on an even keel again. During lunch I went outside to smoke and started thinking a drink might taste pretty good.

I eyed the greasers around school, itching to fight with them. They hunched and slunk around like criminals, underfed, dirty. There weren't that many around, school wasn't that important to them. It wasn't like they would go to college. Still, I eyed those I did see with a playful violence, ready at a moment's notice to remind them of their place.

I thought of my whiskey flask, empty and left at home. Its silver gleam, the reassuring weight of it in my hand. The warmth of the whiskey as it slides down my throat and hits my stomach, the pleasant buzz that fills my mind…Shit, man. I compulsively lit another cigarette, sucking on it desperately, wishing it was Jack Daniels or Jim Beam, Southern Comfort or Black Velvet. The names that comfort me.

Cherry walked over, her sexy little cheerleader sway, red hair swinging from a loose ponytail.

"Hi," She said in her husky, kind of breathless way. I remembered my resolve to quit the booze. I smiled a wide smile at her.

"Hi," She leaned against me just briefly and I liked the friction of her sweater against my suede jacket.

"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight at Tucci's?" I said, slinging my arm casually around her shoulders. Her face darkened a bit before she smiled and nodded.

"Sure, Bob. You can pick me up at seven," She turned and flounced away. I stared after her, the desire for a drink hitting me hard again.

One little sip couldn't possibly hurt. I could see the gleam on the flask as it layed on my desk, could imagine it filled with the deep amber liquid of a fine whiskey or scotch, and how nice and smooth it would be sliding down my throat.

At home, my parents out, the liquor cabinet mocked me, all those full bottles, fancy labels. Just one sip wouldn't hurt.

It was six. An hour until I had to pick up Cherry. I selected a finely aged scotch and poured it into an oversized shot glass. Neat. Brought it to my lips, just one little sip wouldn't hurt a soul.


End file.
